Kate sits in a therapist's office on 86th Street. It's her fourth visit to this doctor. She can't understand why she's here, but her boss thinks she needs therapy to overcome her obsession with perfection. Whenever she decides to counter the treatment, telling her boss she doesn't need it because she's fine, her boss threatens her with her job.
So this is where she is now, sitting reluctantly in the outer office of the therapist that she's meant to see for no good reason, in her opinion.
"Kate Beckett?" The receptionist calls out.
Kate timidly raises her hand for the receptionist to see, and the receptionist tells her to enter the door to her right. She walks past the receptionist, twists the doorknob, and walks in. She's been coming to this therapist for the last four visits, and in her mind, nothing has changed. She thinks this is a waste of time, time she could be using for something more productive. She closes the door, walks past the couch to the many floor-to-ceiling windows, and stares at the city.
She knows that the therapist she is here to see is checking his schedule for the next appointment after hers. So she stands there looking out the window, taking in the city below her. She continues to look out the window when she hears the door open and close. The therapist sits in the single office chair and looks directly at her.
"Are you ready to begin Kate?" The therapist asks.
"I don't see the reason. I don't have any issues that I can't control."
"I beg to differ. You have an obsession with everything being perfect. In the real world, we know that's not true. No one is perfect, and no one can control it. So until you understand that, you will have this issue."
"Is it wrong to be perfect? Or a reasonable facsimile thereof? I strive to be the best chef I can be. I can tell you that my quail is prepared to perfection. But you have to use the freshest quail because it dries out too quickly if you don't. I prefer to serve them roasted, making their taste richer and more robust. When paired with truffle ravioli and wild mushrooms, it is exquisite! Of course, you can always cook them in a pig's bladder with a mix of Maderia and cognac. You see, the bladder helps protect
the quail and keeps it moist. You could serve it with a tender sauce of thyme, spring onion caramelized shallots, or truffles. Truffles go perfectly with almost any quail dish because they elevate the delicate taste."
Kate sees the therapist is looking off into space. She takes a minute to ensure he is paying attention to what she's saying, and then she asks him,
"Are you feeling okay?"
The therapist looks at Kate, realizing she is obsessed with perfection, by describing the food she prepares.
"I'm fine. Please go on."
"But you must be able to afford truffles ...otherwise, you just better forget about it."
"Now, for an appetizer, I suggest…"
The therapist interrupts Kate before she can complete her sentence and asks,
"Kate, would you mind if I change the subject for a moment?"
"No." Kate walks away from the window and back towards the couch, where she sits and looks at the therapist.
Once he has her attention, he opens up with this question.
"Kate, why do you keep coming to me every week?"
"Well, it's simple. My boss said she would fire me if I didn't attend weekly therapy sessions with you. And I like my job, so I come back every week."
"And why do you think she thinks you need therapy?"
"Why? You know what, I don't have the faintest idea!"
Kate stands behind the very long preparation table in the kitchen she calls her own. She's been working here for the past six years. She gets in early for peace of mind and clarity as she reviews tonight's menu. She prepares each dish with utmost perfection.
She ties the apron around her and rolls the top over the ties. Before she knows it, it's time for the dinner rush.
"Ordering two tasting menus. Fire two amuse-bouche, please." She tells the sous chef.
"Leah, I need a quail and a Dover sole for table nine."
"I'm still waiting on those beef tenderloins. Where are they?"
"Pick up!" Kate yells to the server who has just come into her kitchen.
John grabs the dishes that Kate had just laid down on the table. As she's putting the finishing touches on a second dish for a different table, he tells her that one of their customers complimented her on her dish.
"Excuse me, chef, you should know Hal Reeves says your lamb has never been so good before."
"Oh really? And what would he know?" She gives him a small smile, and he returns it as he takes the next order to the dining room.
Paula walks into the kitchen, going to retrieve a rare bottle of wine from the wine cooler that is not out in the main restaurant. She had owned this restaurant for the past twenty years and was happy when Kate came to cook for her. Of course, they've had their ups and downs, and when Kate prepares the evening dishes, she doesn't want any interruptions. But being a businesswoman as she is, when someone asks to see the chef who created these beautiful dishes, she can't deny them.
"Kate, the Petersons are here. They would like to tell you how brilliant you are. So when you get a chance, can you speak with them?" Paula asks.
"Thank them for me. But also tell them that brilliant chefs belong in the kitchen creating the food they had just finished eating."
"Just go outside and say hello. This couple is one of my best customers. Paula pleaded.
Kate gives her a look And then says,
"All right, just give me a minute," she says as she throws her dish towel over her shoulder and walks away from the prep table. She detours to where Leah, now eight months pregnant, and gives her some advice. She observes what she's doing and says,
"Just don't cook them too long because they get…"
"They get tough, I know."
"No, dry. Dry, Leah. I get tough. The quail get dry."
She's about to head over to her quiet place when Paula catches her. She stops, knowing Paula will ask her something because she always does.
"Kate, I want to go over the menu for next week."
Kate knows it will be a battle, so she says,
"Later, okay?"
Paula takes the bottle of wine she initially came into the kitchen for and turns away towards the kitchen doors.
Kate pulls open the door to the walk-in refrigerator. Once inside, she leans against the shelving that holds lettuce and kale and takes a deep breath, closing her eyes. She knows she will have to make an appearance to greet Paula's customers, but that's part of what she does. She doesn't like it, but it has to be done. She gathers her courage, takes one last deep cleansing cold breath, and walks out of the refrigerator.
"You're a magician, Kate. And you know my husband sings your praises constantly. In fact, it's hard for me not to be jealous." Mrs. Peterson says as she draws her husband closer to her.
"I worship anyone who can surprise my palate." Mr. Peterson tells her.
Kate's cheeks redden just a little at the praise they are giving her.
"It's always a pleasure to cook for you both."
"We'll see you next week, right Kate?"
"Of course, Mrs. Peterson."
"Good night."
"Good night," Kate responds,
"Nice to see you." Mr. Peterson says as he follows his wife out to the car.
With a friendly wave back toward the chef, the Petersons get into their waiting limousine to bring them back home.
On the way back to the kitchen, Kate is stopped by two more couples who tell her the meal she prepared for them was outstanding. She gives them each a couple of minutes of her time before she heads back toward the kitchen once again. As Kate rounds the bar, there is a small table for two sitting off to the left side of the bar. A couple there are seated, and she can tell that the woman is frustrated with the man sitting there because of his constant complaining. But what comes from the man's mouth makes her stop.
She turns and sees Paula standing beside an upset couple, holding an appetizer dish in her hands, listening to what the man is telling her.
"And I'm telling you, it's not cooked properly."
Knowing she prides herself on preparing everything perfectly, she walks up to the table and says,
"May I ask what this is about?"
"Kate, I'll take care of this," Paula says.
The man looks directly at Kate and knows exactly who she is.
"Ah, you must be the chef that prepared whatever this is supposed to be."
"Yes, I am. What's the problem?"
"There is something I'd like to show you. My date's foie gras has not been cooked long enough."
The woman sitting with the man who commented to Kate tells her tablemate to drop whatever he's about to start. But her words go unheeded, and he continues complaining about the appetizer.
The man hands the dish to Kate. She inspects what she has prepared and is getting more irate by the second. Paula takes it from her hands before Kate can get a good look at the appetizer.
"Why don't I bring you another appetizer with my compliments?"
Kate hastily takes the dish back from Paula and then starts inspecting the appetizer she has made. Knowing there's nothing wrong with it, she states that fact.
"There's nothing wrong with my foie gras. It's cooked just fine."
"It's okay, honey. Everyone stumbles over their foie gras every once and a while."
That's the last straw. Kate goes on to tell him why he's wrong.
"There's nothing wrong with this. It's precisely comme il faut."
"What is that supposed to mean?" He asks a bit harshly.
"Comme il faut? Means as it should be. One hundred forty degrees in the oven, 80 degrees water temperature, for 25 minutes, not too long or short, with the perfect touch of pink... honey.
Knowing he'd been insulted, he's had enough.
"That's it. We'll take our business somewhere else. Let's go."
The man hurriedly tried to rise from his seat and, in the process, pulled out the tablecloth covering the table, making him that much more furious. He storms off with his dining companion, who is slow to follow, not wanting to be associated with an idiot like him. She knows there will not be a second date even before he asks.
Kate, who had watched the interaction between the two, needed to get in one more smart ass comment, so she let it fly.
"May I suggest Manny's hot dog cart on the corner? I hear he cooks to order!" The smile of the woman who left with him as she looked back at her was all the thanks she needed.
"Kate, how often have I told you you can't insult somebody when they comment about your food?"
"Oh, come on, Paula, that guy was a barbarian!" Kate says as she walks back into her kitchen, again putting on her apron.
"Kate, he's a paying customer! If he says his foie gras is not done, then it's not done. Paula says as Kate stares at her from across the prep table.
"Foie gras is cruelty to animals," Leah adds to the conversation.
"Leah, stay out of this." Kate snaps back, giving her a look.
"I swear to God, Kate, if you weren't one of the better chefs in the city, I'd fire you tonight," Paula says as she turns and walks back to the dining room.
"One of the better chefs?! What's that supposed to mean?" Kate asks out loud.
As she says this, all of her assistant chefs behind her look up with hooded eyes, knowing that something is brewing between these two.
She turns and faces her assistant chefs, who are working diligently behind her on another table's meal.
"She's doing that just to annoy me." She turns around, walks up to their prep table, and picks up the two meals just completed for table six. She gives them a look and repeats what she had said two seconds ago, but with more confidence that it's not true.
"She's doing that just to annoy me, I'm sure of it. Isn't she?" She asks no one in particular.
All they can do is look at her sheepishly and say in unison,
"Whatever you say, chef."
Kate takes the completed dishes and gives them a once-over before putting them on the pickup table to ensure everything is perfect. Once she sees that they are the server who was waiting for them, she moves in to pick them up and deliver them.
The night is over for her. It's close to 10:30 p.m. when she finally has everything all taken care of and ready for the following day. She moves to her office, retrieving her scarf, wrapping it around her neck, and then putting on her coat. She walks out the restaurant's side door and is welcomed to light snow falling. The snow lightly falling reminds her of when she was a child back in school, hoping they had the following day off due to too much snow. She walks home slowly, but she's covered in snow by the time she gets to her apartment.
A/N: This is a story based on the movie from the late 2000s. A smiley face will be rewarded for every correct guess that names the movie's title. A hint: it takes place in New York City. Updates will be as usual, at 0700 on Sunday EST.